In the blur of the photograph, time leaves its gleaming, snail-like track.

The camera eye is the one in the middle of our forehead, combining how we see with what there is to be seen.

Writing has made me rich-not in money but in a couple hundred characters out there, whose pursuits and anguish and triumphs I've shared. I am unspeakably grateful at the life I have come to lead.

Images proliferate. Am I wrong in being reminded of printing money in a period of wild inflation? Do we know what we are doing? Are we able to evaluate what we have done?

The man who comes to writing late, but is in essence a writer, may sometimes gain as much as he has lost: his experience of life has given him a subject, he is spared the youthful writer's self-torment and soul-searching.

However much [photographs] may lie, they do so with the raw materials of truth.

Cats don't belong to people. They belong to places.